


Caressing the Empty

by Electric_Apple



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Always Female Sam, F/M, Female Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 10:00:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6901366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electric_Apple/pseuds/Electric_Apple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tells himself that she's John's <i>daughter</i>, that John will beat the living shit out of him, that the only thing worse than having John find out would be having Dean do the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caressing the Empty

She shows up on his doorstep at 2am, pounding frantically against the door and calling for him to come, come _quick_ , because Dad's hurt and Dean's _bleeding_ \- he stops long enough to snatch up the loaded shotgun beneath his bed and then he's downstairs and brushing past Alex to get to the car. John's slumped barely conscious in the backseat and Dean is in the passenger seat, blood oozing thick and red between the fingers of the hand he has pressed over the wound in his left shoulder. "How long," he asks, and Dean grunts out "Four hours."

It's not likely that they were followed, then. He rests the shotgun on the hood of the car and runs his eyes over Dean, assessing the damage with an expertise borne of long practise. "You," he instructs Dean finally, "don't move. Lexie, I need your help."

Together they get first John and then Dean into the house; Caleb calls Olivia, who arrives twenty minutes later with a bag full of medical supplies to stitch them back up. John has a couple of broken ribs, which she straps, and Dean has a nasty-looking hole in his left shoulder that requires a shot of morphine and a few dozen sutures to repair. Alex paces agitatedly between the couch where John is sprawled, and the chair where Dean is sitting so that Olivia can work. It's Dean, finally, who tells her to sit the hell down for a minute. "You're wearin' holes in Caleb's carpet," he says lightly, and she huffs something about no one being able to notice before subsiding, momentarily still, in the chair next to her brother. He reaches out with his good arm to touch her shoulder. A brief pause, and she leans into the touch.

By the time Olivia's done with Dean, John's with it enough to drag himself upstairs to the guest bedroom. Dean follows a few minutes later, off his face on the morphine, and Alex is standing up to go with him when Caleb grabs her arm, stopping her. "Your wrist," he says quietly, and Alex's eyes widen in surprise, as though she was barely aware of the wound herself. "You broke it again, yeah?"

"Yeah," she admits. "I mean, I think so."

Olivia raises an eyebrow. "You drove stick for four hours with a broken wrist?"

"Well, _yeah_." She doesn't bother to hide her impatience at the question; she's seventeen now but he remembers the scowl as clear as day from the period of teenage angst not so far behind her. "They needed help."

Olivia raises the other eyebrow, but doesn't make further comment. She prods carefully at Alex's wrist for a while before remarking off-hand that the bones haven't dislocated, then wraps it carefully in a cast. She tells Alex to go down to the hospital in the morning and get an x-ray to confirm that the placement is correct; Caleb nods and says he'll take her, first thing. He thanks Olivia, and walks her out to the car. He'll settle payment later - Olivia's charge is seldom money and it'll take him a few days to get what she needs.

Turns out that the job fucked them up good; it's weeks before either John or Dean regain their feet and weeks again before either of them are strong enough to handle a weapon. So yeah, he gets used to having them around and for a little while there they make the family they've all been missing: good, solid home-cooked meals and long evenings around the table playing cards and fresh clothes and a clean house, thanks largely to Alex's complete inability to sit still during the day.

It takes him a little longer to get used to Alex. She's seventeen and she's the same kid she's always been but she's something more than that, too: all long legs and pale skin and soft freckles. Her hair, longer now than it was the last time he saw her, thick and brown and free from the pink streaks; her eyes, that same sparkling, intelligent brown. She still likes to cuddle up on the couch with him, watching old cable movies late into the night, and though he tries to ignore the press of her body against his or the weight of her head in his lap, he's only human.

If Alex notices, she doesn't say anything.

The first time it happens, they're standing side-by-side at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes after dinner. Alex is pausing periodically in her task to flick handfuls of suds at him. The front of his shirt is soon drenched, and finally he reaches over to grab her in a headlock, threatening to dunk her in the dishwater. "You wouldn't!" she gasps, and he grins. "Try me, kid." And she's a Winchester, albeit one with a broken wrist, and she holds her own and somewhere in the tangle of limbs and dishrags and Alex's hair he finds himself holding her bodily against him and her face is tipped towards his and he kisses her, because he suddenly can't _not_ do it.

There was one before this - one kiss, one moment they've never discussed. Just before her sixteenth birthday and they were celebrating early because they were all in one place, John and the kids and Caleb and Jim and Joshua. There was good food and lots of booze and he was drunk and sated and _happy_. They both were. And maybe he wanted it more, or maybe she did, but when she reached up to kiss his cheek in thanks for the bracelet he'd bought her, he reached down to press his lips gently against hers. She opened for him then just as she opens for him now, soft lips parting, mouth hot and wet beneath his. He deepens it, because he can and because she lets him. Tongues and mouth and teeth and wet, wet heat. Oh, God. "Lexie."

She smiles against him.

"We can't do this." But he's still kissing her, reaching up to tangle his fingers in her hair, to tug her head gently back to nuzzle at her jaw and the tender flesh behind her ear. "This is wrong. You're his _daughter_."

She pulls away, face a deep, flaming red. "I'm my own person," she says softly. "I always have been." Then she turns, and walks out of the kitchen, leaving him with a sink full of half-washed dishes and a thick, heavy weight pooling in his jeans.

* * *

He tells himself it's not going to happen again. He tells himself that she's John's _daughter_ , that John will beat the living shit out of him, that the only thing worse than having John find out would be having Dean do the same. He's got plenty of women in his life, women he can and does disappear with for a quick fuck or a longer night, though none of them have that smattering of freckles across the bridge of their nose or the depth in their eyes that Lexie does. None of them make him smile with a simple raised eyebrow or can recite all three Lethal Weapon movies by heart or dance to the radio when they think no one's watching, which is why he finds himself lowering his lips to cover hers, gently, late one night while they're watching "The Great Escape" on cable. He kisses her till she's writhing against him, but when she pulls at the buttons on his shirt, he pushes her gently away. "Go to bed, Lex," he tells her softly, and she does, confusion burning deep in her eyes.

But they've started, now, and late nights become later and Alex's body is warm and soft and young beneath his hands and Alex's mouth is hot and wet and needy against his. He lets it go far, but never _that_ far, kidding himself that it's not so bad if he doesn't actually fuck her, that he can kiss her and suckle at her and open her with his mouth and his fingers but that if he doesn't actually fuck her, John might be okay with it.

Alex is not okay with it. Alex wants it. She asks him, over and over, and he tells her no, over and over. His hands move restlessly over her, soft skin beneath the purple tanktop and matching boxes she loves to sleep in, and she's moving beneath him but when she whimpers and tries to press herself closer to him, he stops and reaches to catch her hands in his own. "No, Lex. It can't happen, not like this."

"Please." Her voice is a breathless whisper two-parts sob. "I want to, I want _you_."

"No," he repeats. "I can't, Lexie." He ducks his head to kiss her, quick and urgent. "It's not right."

Her face collapses. "Caleb…I want, I _need_ -"

"Hush," he murmurs against her lips. "I know sweetheart, I know. I'll take care of you. Let me take care of you."

She nods and he presses her back against the couch. He peels the tanktop up and over her head, breasts surprisingly firm and round above her slender hips. He leans down and suckles gently; works a hand beneath the waistband of her boxers and strokes her wet heat in rhythm with his mouth on her breast. He swallows the gasps of her climax with his kiss.

She reaches for him as she comes back to herself, sliding her fingers down his chest and along the bulge in his jeans, but he pushes her hand gently away. "I got you, Lexie. Shh. I got you." And he tugs her boxers down her legs, those incredibly long, pale legs, and he parts her thighs tenderly and he licks at her, short stabbing movements, long lingering strokes. Her thighs tremble and her hands clutch at his shoulders and she sobs. He reaches down to free himself from his own boxers; strokes himself roughly as he moves his mouth over her. Her climax is marked by the arching of her spine, the silent movements of her hips, his by short, urgent gasps. He collapses against her, momentarily rendered motionless, before crawling up to cover her body with his. He kisses her, slow and deep. They sleep.

* * *

But Dean knows.

God help him, Dean _knows_.

He _saw_ them, tangled together on the couch.

So Caleb does the only thing he can do. "It won't happen again."

Dean nods, continues stacking their dinner plates. Then, unable to help himself, blurts out "She's my _sister_ , man."

"I know. It won't happen again," he repeats.

Dean looks at him for along moment, then nods again. "Okay. Okay, yeah."

* * *

It shouldn't hurt like this, turning her away. He doesn't tell about Dean, doesn't want to hurt her that way, but when she comes to him that afternoon as he's working in the shed, he takes her by the shoulders and tells her, as gently as he can, that they can't do this anymore. That it's _over_.

"Do I get a say in this?" she asks, and he can hear the woman she's becoming in the hurt child she is.

"No, Lexie." He kisses her forehead - fierce, quick, final. "It ain't right. It was never right."

"It felt right to me," she says softly, and then she's gone.

* * *

They leave two days later. Alex has rustled them up a job and John's ready to go again; Dean, he thinks, is just glad to get his sister the fuck away from him. She helps John pack the car while Dean inventories their ammunition pool one last time, and then they're leaving, John and Dean with firm handshakes and slaps on the back, Alex with a brief kiss to his cheek and a smile that goes nowhere near her eyes.

He watches the car disappear down the driveway, then wanders out the back to beat the living shit out of the boxing bag in the shed.

He tries to tell himself that the burning sensation in his eyes isn't tears.


End file.
